Still Lake - Anne Stuart [98]
Her nipples were hard beneath the lace and he licked her, feeling the bud tighten beneath his tongue. She was trembling. He looked at her in the moonlight, all ripe, abundant, silvery flesh, her hair flowing to her shoulders, her eyes dark with worried desire.
“Lie down.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
She lay back on the blanket of discarded clothes, wearily, helped by his slight push, and she closed her eyes to the bright moon overhead.
And opened them again when he touched her. Her panties were slightly damp now. He wanted her wet with need.
The panties were going to have to go, much to his dismay. And the bra—the satin and lace were exciting, but not nearly as delicious as her skin.
The bra fastened in front, and he wondered if she’d worn it on purpose. He unfastened it, though he would have had no trouble with a back clasp, and her breasts spilled free in the moonlight, the rosy tips beaded with desire.
He was momentarily distracted from his eventual goal. He climbed onto the table, feeling it rock slightly beneath his weight, and caught her breast in his mouth, sucking at it, letting his tongue scrape against the distended nipple.
He could make her come that way, he thought. Hell, he could make her come in any number of ways, any number of times, and he had every intention of doing so. Right now he didn’t want to think about death and murder, about the blood-soaked past or the doubtful future. He didn’t want to think about any other woman. He just wanted to lose himself in the scent and sound of this woman, the taste and texture of her, the rare, impossible delight of disappearing into pure sensation and bringing her with him. He’d never needed sex, never needed a woman, this woman, so desperately.
He ran his tongue down her stomach as he slid his hands beneath the thin strips that held her underwear on. He knew exactly where he was headed, and she wouldn’t like it, at least not at first. And then she’d like it very much indeed.
She let out a soft murmur of protest as he slid the panties off her long legs, but he ignored her. What the hell did she expect? He needed her naked, needed her now, and he wasn’t about to wait any longer.
He unzipped his jeans, freeing himself in the moonlight, and the feel of the cool air on his cock was a sharp delight. Not as good as her hot, damp body would feel, though, taking him deep inside.
Her hips bucked when he kissed the soft curls that protected her. And then he slid his tongue down against her clitoris, and she practically exploded.
She grabbed his head, and he half expected her to pull his hair in an attempt to move him, but somewhere along the way she changed her mind, and her fingers slid through his hair and her hips softened beneath his grip.
She came immediately, almost a disappointment, since he wanted to make it last. It was just a small climax, and he knew he could do better, so he ignored her efforts to tug him away, returning to his task with renewed dedication.
The next one was better, and he could prolong it for her, with his tongue, his lips, even his teeth, until she was sobbing and gasping for breath.
He’d wanted to get her to use her mouth on him—he’d been obsessed with the fantasy since he first noticed her full, lush mouth, but by now it no longer mattered. All that mattered was being inside her.
He pulled away from her, wiping his mouth on his arm, and reached for the condom he had in the pocket of his jeans. He had three of them with him, and he wasn’t sure they’d be enough. He couldn’t imagine ever having enough of her.
He tore the packet open with his teeth, ready to sheath himself in latex, and then in the sweet folds of her body, when she reached up and took the open packet from him.
He let her, though her hands were trembling, and she was struggling to breathe evenly. He was on his knees beside her, on the table, his cock jutting out straight and hard, and he expected his Victorian virgin to cover her eyes and shriek in horror.
Instead she touched him, and he almost came in her cool, soft hands.